


Arda Unmarred

by Kalendeer



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: A future very very far away, Arda Unmarred, Dystopia, Futuristic verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-06-04
Packaged: 2018-06-10 01:27:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6932314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalendeer/pseuds/Kalendeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[This is a future fic, not an AU!]</p><p>Arda's end was prophesized and, with it, the birth of paradise. Rebirth there was, but the much desired heavens are still much awaited for.</p><p>In a new Arda ruled by Namo and Irmo, technology replaces magic, misfits are re-educated with heavy medication and everyone is severly controlled by an automatized system. Those who dare remember their past lives are forced to forget. But not all of those are ready to let go of their past - at least not Finarfin, former High King of the Noldor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Second chance [Melkor]

**Author's Note:**

> The Fëanturi: Those of the Valar who possess "spiritual" powers, Namo/Mandos, Irmo/Lorien and Nienna, sometimes with the addition of their spouses Vairë and Estë.  
> Fëanaro Curufinwë: Fëanor  
> Nolofinwë : Fingolfin  
> Arafinwë : Finarfin  
> Canafinwë "Kano" : Maglor  
> Tyelkormo : Celegorm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Released from the Void into Arda Remade, Melkor discovers a much changed world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after much thoughts, I decided to rewrite half of this chapter, since it was really bad compared to chapter 2 and 3. This new version is much more to my liking, so I hope you will enjoy the ride!

He is reborn out of nothingness.

 

He doesn’t remember either name or nature. His mind was empty and silent, unmoving, until this very moment when something (light, people talking, a touch) awakens him. Slowly he blinks. He needs a long time to grasps that he feels.

 

That he **is**.

 

Suddenly he remembers another occurrence. An overwhelming, all-powerful force touching him, humming, and a name spilling from its infinite being.

 

Mbelekoroz.

 

His name, the first of many. Melkor. Morgoth. Bauglir. With the names flow the memories; some sweet, but most devoid of all happiness: a never ending well of insatiable envy and failed ambitions, a gnawing rage against everyone and everything. The overwhelming _want_ he had been created with. He shivers as the crushing emptiness of the Void threatens to suck in his conscience again.

 

No. Not again. He won’t stop being. He won’t.

 

“Do not fear, brother. You are well bound to Arda, although we believed you forever lost.”

 

Nienna. Melkor _knows_ her, despite the unfamiliar body. She seems lesser than she was, unless he is the one who cannot perceive all of her. The Ainu feels… strangely limited. He sees, smells and hears. Yet all of these senses fail to provide even a tenth of what he used to notice.

 

“You have lost much of yourself to the Void, brother. Such is Its stillness, your very being calcified. It is fortunate that so much of you was saved.”

 

When he talks, his voice rings strangely, as if… as if his body is real, articulated like one of the Children’s, rather than the shells favored by his kind.

 

“… saved?”

 

“Yes,” she says, cool and soothing fingers brushing his brow. “For Arda is remade, brother. Our Father awarded a new beginning to all of us.”

 

She smiles, soft and sad. Melkor wonders what can pain her so.

 

“A new chance. You may leave freely and mingle with the Children. Perhaps, humbled as you are, you will find your place amongst them. Find some happiness, brother. Do not dwell on the ways of the Powers – for you do not belong amongst them anymore.”

 

***

 

Arda is ugly.

 

The first time they let Melkor out of the hospital, he understands he missed more than the mere beginning of time. He remembers the feeling of disconnection his former self experienced when freed from Mandos, but this… this is unlike everything he ever imagined.

 

He stands on a terrace, hundreds of meters away from the ground, dazzled by hundreds of shiny, twinkling letters of all colors. Flying boxes polished as mirrors follow each other at great speed in a sea of peaks constructed out of glass and steel. He takes a moment for his ears to accommodate the sounds. Before the Void, he would have been fascinated. Now, he is crushed by his own smallness, his ignorance, the sensation of not actually being there.

 

He travels in one of the flying boxes (a car, he is told) toward an official building. Here, he is sat in front of a bored elf with painted nails who speaks to him as if he were an idiotic toddler. Do you have a diploma? Any diploma? Do you speak any foreign language? Do you have any new registered skills? Do you know how to read? He doesn’t know how to answer any of the questions (does Quenya works? Is Sauron’s Black Speech considered a foreign language? Is he supposed to say he speaks Valarin? Do they even still use the Twengar?). He is baffled by the silver, flat thing the elf types upon when he speaks. Finally she takes his identity card to scan his “rating”.

 

“Rating of four, illiterate, without any qualification, brain damages due to a prolonged coma. You, my good sire, will be very welcomed in the army. Please put your thumb here. Thank you. Now that you are in the system, you should be granted lodging in a few minutes. Will you need a social worker to walk you there? Yes, I think so.”

 

And this is how Melkor, once the most powerful of the Valar, finds himself alone, utterly lost, in a one-room flat illuminated by the glowing, pink leg of a stylized pink lady flashing above his window.

 

***

The army is terrible.

 

None of Melkor’s former powers _work_. He could freeze a whole lake and burn entire lands; now, he has to rely solely on the strength of his body. He is very tall and admittedly stronger than the Secondborn around him, but any well trained one would flatten him. His superiors talk to him as if he were either mentally incapacitated or an orc-spawn.

 

The army is terrible but Melkor feels more at home here than he ever was in Valinor. The orders are simple, easy to follow, and his performances are good enough for him to be praised from time to time. Praised. By someone who can’t be coerced into doing the praising. With time, the fallen Vala even gets promoted.

 

Early on, Melkor understands he is one of the very few who has the dubious honor of remembering his past.  From the outside, nothing distinguishes Sergeant Morwë Melko from others elves. He has the pointy ears, he is not aging and he has no special power to bestow. The last part isn't entirely true. Melkor is still an ainu. If he dies, he will just wait until he can make a new body for himself. He remembers a time when he could shape the world.

 

No more. The Fëanturi take care of this now. It's a time of mind rather than matter. Melko doesn't even know what Manwë does these days.

 

Melko is working as a Special Forces police officer; not that he has any choices. The MANDOS system usually offers at least a dozen of job offers fitting for one's rating and skills, and anyone is supposed to be able to switch to something else. Somehow Melko always gets either the army or the police. He does like the mindlessness of the task, and as his file says, he doesn’t know how to do anything else, but there are some times when he wishes he could try at something other than destruction.

 

Most of the time, he feels stuck in the little box prepared by his brethren, to have him in Arda, but sedated, tamed, trapped.

 

Most of the time, he thinks he deserves his fate.

 

***

 

He is reviewing his last batch of new faces when his eyes stumble on a name that is definitely not supposed to be here.

 

_Finwion, Curufinwë Fëanaro [Elf]_

 

The police Special Forces are agreeable for humans, but very few elves get enlisted as foot soldiers... only the washed out, criminals, idiots and genuine creeps.

 

_You just couldn't enjoy a calm, non-eventful second chance at life, could you?_

 

The Children aren't supposed to remember, and their second chance is meant to be fair, without any consideration the first life; at least that's what was decided at the beginning of Arda Unmarred, if Nienna is to believed. But then, she said the same about Melkor himself, and fairness isn’t exactly governing his life.

 

Fëanaro doesn't look like he used to. When Melkor faces him, the sole elf in a line of twenty recruits, his hair has just been shaved military-style. His ears stand out dramatically, too big, and his eyes don't have the glow of Valinor. Most valinorean are a bit smaller than they used to be. He looks tired, on the defensive, and answers every question with the shortest sentences he can utter.

 

As time pass, Melkor notes that the sole elf in his elite company isn't making friends with anyone. Not that he is unlikable: he just doesn't really try. He refuses drinks. He doesn't pin family pictures inside his locker. He doesn't share stories about himself.

 

“Why are you here?” Melkor asks him one day. “You don't look the type.”

 

“Do I?” He shrugs. “Pays well.”

 

Melkor can think of hundreds of things Fëanaro could do to earn at least ten time what he's making here, but he is supposed not to know him. He is surprised by his speech. Fëanaro used to be very strict on language.

 

“What did you do before you enlisted? You're too low in rank for a career-man, and too old for this to be your first job.”

 

“None of your concern.”

 

Melko's job description doesn't allow him to press him further, so he doesn't, but he watches.

 

Fëanaro is a talented soldier. He is physically strong, clever, efficient, obedient like he can’t risk even the shadow of a rebellion. He is also always tired, sullen, and takes blue pills every day. The only blue pills in circulation are hormonal-orientation medication, the new “miracles” created after Irmo understood the way chemicals shape the brain. They don't work on Melkor (not that they didn't try despite him being irreproachable), but there's no reason Fëanaro would be immune to them.

 

“What are those for?”

 

“Personal reasons.”

 

“I need to know. If you run out of them during an operation, I need to know how you will react.”

 

“I'm not a psycho.”

 

“Then you won't mind telling me.”

 

“I do mind.”

 

“I could just go through your files. I decided to ask you because I respect you.”

 

“You'd be the first.”

 

He doesn't answer. Melkor doesn't ask anyone else.

 

It takes many more months for Fëanaro to give a bit of ground. He needs a day off and he is not supposed to have one. That is when Melkor learns from his mouth that he has six children and one of them is in trouble and no one else can fix it. Six children is the most anyone can sire, and due to the population control law, it is sure to give you an incredible bad rating.

 

Perhaps this is why Fëanaro is working here, as a rank-and-file soldier, but the number of children doesn't fits his age. Too many for an elf so young.

 

Fëanaro really wants his day off, so he answers for once.

 

“Four of them are adopted.”

 

“Why would anyone adopt so many children?”

 

“Ever been to a house for parentless and inapt kids? I'm their last living relative. I don't care if my life's shit if I can keep them out of these places.”

 

Melkor understands that the blue pills aren't the first run Fëanaro has with Irmo's policy for social misfits. Anyone can read in his eyes that he has spent enough time in those houses of hell to _know_.

 

“What did you do before you adopted them and ruined your life?”

 

“I was an engineer. Can I have my day off?”

 

Turns out the eldest (Findis, one of the adopted ones) got expelled from the elite school she went to, all state-paid, and no amount of begging from Fëanaro's part can keep her here.

 

“I need a promotion,” the elf says the next day. He won't ask “can you get me one? What do I need to do to speed things up?”

 

Sergeant Melko doesn't ask anything in return. He knows he's abusing his position (Fëanaro wasn't supposed to be first in line, not when there's more experienced candidates), but he can't help it. Melkor feels a kinship there, inherited from another life: a fallen power extending a hand to another. With the extra wages, his new second can affords a paid school for the step-sister, adopted daughter who both hates and disdains him.

 

“Can't blame her for being ashamed of me, can I?” Fëanaro pretends he doesn't. He could have fooled Melkor, once, a long time ago. He is starting to read him well. “I used to make satellites. Now I'm shooting rebels like a criminal and she has to live in a three-room apartment.”

 

“She doesn't deserve you,” Melkor says, and he means it. This petty teenager doesn't deserve Fëanaro risking his life, spending all his money and sleeping on the couch because he can't pay the rent of a decent flat. She doesn't deserve the bags under his eyes. She doesn't deserve the way he grovels to buy her a future. She doesn’t deserve the noldo he was, the one who awakened such powerful feelings; the beautiful creature Melkor desired more than peace and that ultimately cost him everything.

 

Little by little, Fëanaro lets Morwë Melko in. At first Melkor believes the elf is so lonely he is ready to accept anyone, but the thought itself is insulting. There is too much dignity left in Fëanaro to accept friendship by default.

 

There aren’t enough chairs in Fëanaro's flat the first time he invites him in for diner, despite Findis not showing up. 

 

“Findis is the eldest, followed by my brother Nolofinwë. I had a son, Nelyafinwë, but he's dead now. He was a few weeks older than my sister Lalwendë, then come my sons Canafinwë and Tyelkormo. The youngest is my brother Arafinwë.”

 

Nolofinwë has the gravity of a teen aged too soon. He is obviously the man in charge when his elder brother is away (which is pretty much always), but he has troubles asserting his authority over his two adopted brother. At least Lalwendë is a cutie, because Arafinwë is definitely the weird one.

 

“He's got anxiety,” Fëanaro admits after the first evening, when Arafinwë throws a terrible fit after seeing Melkor. “Lots of them, and the crisis trigger seemingly at random. They say it's the stress of his parents' death and bad parenting on my part, but he had them before. If he's remembering things – the extra taxes for the special education... I can't afford them. I could take a loan but no bank will lend anything to a class-seven with a misfit kid.”

 

 When Arafinwë is finally diagnosed with Past Remembrance, which means his family has to pay extra taxes for the expensive medication that will keep the recognition away, Melkor finds Fëanaro crying in the locker room.

 

“Don't you see? They'll take him away! Do you know how they treat children in these institutions? He will never recover!”

 

He knows. Fëanaro never recovered either. After everything he did, he cannot bear the failure of the self-appointed mission of saving his family after his father, his step mother, his own wife and their first child all died in a car accident.

 

“Did you try to get a loan?”

 

“Of course I did. All the banks refused. The only ones left are charging interests so high I'll go bankrupt in a few months if I accept their offer. I'm done. I'm just done, even another promotion won't save me now.”

 

“We could get married.”

 

The words are out of Melkor's mouth before he thinks about how ridiculous he sounds, but his proposal actually makes sense.

 

“I'm a class-four with decent wages. We'd move into a four-room flat, with two salaries we could afford it, one room for the girls, one for the boys, one for us with two beds. As a sterile couple we'd get a bonus. We wouldn't be rich but you may be able to start saving. Once Findis and Nolo are old enough to be on their own, we'd get a divorce and you'd be back on track.”

 

Fëanaro waits three days before he resigns to this shameful solution. Melkor doesn't take the wait personally (many a man waited far longer than this for his… bride? To agree). The problem does not lie with him (for once) but by the feeling that he's extending charity to his friend.

 

They live as roommates. Because they are officially a couple, one of them can ask for a change of job. Melkor manages to convince Fëanaro to move behind a desk (because he's the one with six kids, but also because Melkor cannot really die, even if he can't tell him). His rating has gone up from seven to six for being in a pretended homosexual relationship, opening better job options. The sergeant was right: with this arrangement, the financial crisis is gone.

 

The Arafinwë's crisis isn't. His fits calm eventually around Melkor. The former vala attributes the change to the medication. He feels guilty Fëanaro doesn't know they had a history together while he does, and wonders if Arafinwë dreamt of Morgoth.

 

Their friendship turns into something else when both Findis and Nolofinwë have grown and can support themselves, when Fëanaro doesn't actually need a fake husband anymore. He is the one who initiates the kiss (freed, most probably, of the impression that he'd be a whore had he done so sooner). They replace the separate beds by one big enough for two.

 

They never get the divorce paper, even after Melkor tells him everything, even after he admits he can't completely erase the Fëanaro with flaming eyes who lived in a world long gone or the Black Foe he was.

 

He is amazed to discover that there is, at least, one person in this word willing to forgive him.

 

 


	2. A duty not to remember [Finarfin]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "When Finwë dies, something unlocks in Arafinwë’s mind.  
> He remembers losing his father once before. He remembers the terrible pain, a world alight with stars, a mourning city basking in the glow of torches and blue lamps."
> 
> After the end of the world and the rebirth of Arda, Arafinwë struggles with being the only members of his family to remember his past life, in a world where remembering is illegal, where Fëanaro is his father, and he's the rebel rather than the peacemaker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Curufinwë Fëanaro Finwion: Fëanor  
> Arafinwë: Finarfin  
> Nolofinwë: Fingolfin  
> Earwen: Finarfin's wife in Arda Marred

When Finwë dies, something unlocks in Arafinwë’s mind.

He remembers losing his father once before. He remembers the terrible pain, a world alight with stars, a mourning city basking in the glow of torches and blue lamps.

He’s scared when he’s told his brother Fëanaro is going to pick him up. He recollects the tall noldo, the flaming eyes, the burning hate. Arafinwë never met is eldest brother in Arda Remade, but he _knows him_. He doesn’t want Fëanaro. He wants Nolofinwë (the grown up one). He wants Earwen (this woman he’s not met yet). He doesn’t want the grave digger of their people.

The big man who picks him up at the transitory house looks like his brother, but doesn’t feel like him. He’s sad but not delirious with pain. He doesn’t look at Arafinwë as if he’s some kind of weed, but the child is too young yet to decipher the complicated feelings.

“Hello. I am Fëanaro. Do you know who I am?”

“Brother.”

“Yes. I’m your brother. I have decided to adopt you. You come home with me.”

“You’re not my daddy.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want you.”

The stranger breaths sharply. He tells him there isn’t much time, they have to leave now, and he tries to trick him into accepting to be held to take him away – Arafinwë knows better. He remembers Fëanaro is dangerous, and that daddy’s death is linked to his eldest brother. He fights the strong arms, bits him, screams that he hates him.

The stranger takes him anyway.

 

As he grows up, Arafinwë settles a bit. The man wearing Fëanaro’s face doesn’t seem to know what he’s done; not that it’s making anything better. He’s still the one responsible for daddy’s death, and the death of Arafinwë’s own children. He tells everything he knows about them to Nolofinwë, who’s the one taking care of them since the Fëanaro-lookalike is never here. Findis pretends it’s bullshit and Lalwendë makes up stories instead of remembering, but Nolofinwë takes him seriously.

Until Morgoth shows up.

Arafinwë doesn’t like Fëanaro, but if his brother wished to hurt him, he would have done so already. Morgoth is different. The child remembers that he killed Finwë (in this life, or another?) and destroyed their world. His young mind can’t grasp the totality of his crimes, but he knows that nothing can amount to them.

He tries to warn his family. He screams and is told that all is well, but it isn’t. He refuses to talk to Morgoth. He refuses to eat at the same table (he could poison the food, couldn’t he?). He turns sick when he’s there to make Fëanaro understand that the enemy must leave.

He tries to explain with words when Nolofinwë sits him down and tells him he mustn’t behave like this in front of Fëanaro’s friends, that their father (no, not their father, never!) is very lonely and needs to have people in his life, but it won’t happen if Arafinwë gives him reasons to stop inviting people. The child tries to explain that he’s _protecting_ his family. He tries to tell Nolofinwë (describing images of incredible horror with candid words) that Morgoth isn’t anyone’s friend.

Nolofinwë tells him no one deserves to be shunned out because of his fantasies.

That’s when Arafinwë understands Nolofinwë never believed him.

 

He’s taken to see doctors, sometimes by Nolofinwë, now and then by Fëanaro, occasionally by both. The doctors say he’s got Past Remembrance. Arafinwë wants to point out that he’s been telling that to everyone for _years_ but no one was clever enough to understand.

He doesn’t know why the truth makes Fëanaro hug him and cry like it’s a sickness or something. He doesn’t understand why he’s telling him everything is going to be alright, he _will_ protect him, he will do _everything_ he can to make it alright. Arafinwë doesn’t want Fëanaro to do “everything”, because when he does, he starts swearing oaths and killing people.

 

As he turns from a child into a teen, Arafinwë starts to understand the world has no room for people with two lives.

He still believes that Morgoth is going to betray their family, even after years of Fëanaro’s husband living with them. He has accepted by now that his brother-father doesn’t remember anything and that he can’t warn him, because the medication makes Arafinwë forget pretty much everything and he’s only left with dull feelings. He doesn’t love his guardian like he does his true siblings, and doesn’t feel the same kinship with his adoptive brothers Canafinwë and Tyelkormo, but he doesn’t wishes them ill either.

Arafinwë learns that he can’t share his troubles. His “past remembrance syndrome” is an illegal sickness, one that he has to bury so deeply no one can guess it’s here, one that allowed Morgoth to get a foot into their life, and a rather big one. There must be something Arafinwë can do to make him leave, but he’s afraid Fëanaro will keep his husband rather than his brother-son.

 

One day, Arafinwë masters his fear and tells him everything. He’s surprised that Fëanaro sits for so long, never stopping him, never questioning the truth. He’s not even punishing him for stopping his medication for long enough to issue proper warnings.

“Will you leave him now?” Arafinwë asks. Fëanaro must do so, he _must_ , now that he knows the truth.

But he only looks sad and understanding and not angry enough.

“I already know. He told me when Nolofinwë left to live on his own.”

“Then why are you still with him?”

“For how long have you been afraid of me, Ari?” he wonders. “Even today, you can’t forget who I used to be. Who am I to judge my husband?”

“You were _never_ as bad as he was!” Arafinwë shouts, but by the look in Fëanaro’s eyes, he knows the fierce noldo of old isn’t _here_. The prince of Tirion wouldn’t have forgiven. He wouldn’t have let Morgoth anywhere near his family. Arafinwë and he don’t live in the same world. Fëanaro lived only one life, in a word of tall buildings, connected devices, his whole existence spelt for him to follow. Arafinwë lived two, one of them as a king.

 

With each passing year, Arafinwë feels his love and admiration growing for his adoptive father. In some ways he finds the Fëanaro of old in the desperate race the new one is running against the odds and his refusal to settle for anything less than a bright future for his children. His children are leaving him, one after another. Findis never calls him and doesn’t even invites him for her begetting’s day’s diners, but he still won’t regret adopting her. Nolofinwë is starting a brilliant career in social matters (hoping, no doubts, to change the way “misfits” are treated). Kanafinwë is graduating in a good music school and Lalwendë is studying to become a teacher. Tyelkormo wants to follow his father’s steps and enlist in the army as a career officer.

Arafinwë is still a burden.

Fëanaro claims he should be an artist. Arafinwë thinks he’s making too much of his meager talents and small vision. Of course, he’d like to make a living out of his doodling, but…

“If you think being a professional artist will make you happy, we only have to get you to Phoenix.”

Phoenix is on the best art school in Valmapolis. It’s also the only one who welcome students with a “mistfit” background, such as Arafinwë.

“Nolofinwë has heard the system has a much higher tolerance for non-medication users if they graduated out of Phoenix,” Fëanaro claims with a dashing smile. “If I can get you enlisted, then you’ll be able to be yourself. No pills. No doctors. Of course, you will be expected to remain politically correct, but it’s the best you can hope for.”

Arafinwë wishes he were strong enough to tell him not to. Because Fëanaro doesn’t have the assets right now, and will probably obtain the necessary leverage by going back to active duty to increase his rating. Because whatever amount of “freedom” Fëanaro can buy with bits of his own soul will never be even a tenth of what Arafinwë knew in his past life.

He can’t.

He can’t tell him he doesn’t want to go to Phoenix, because Arafinwë wants to study there, stop the pills and get his memories back. He wants to give Fëanaro the solace he seeks by allowing the illusion that he can offer a good life to his children, especially Arafinwë. Arafinwë can’t tell him that saving him won’t mend the cracks and heal the wounds this new world inflicted upon Fëanaro himself.

He can’t destroy what little hope his father has.

 

Arafinwë receives more than his share of bad glares because of his father’s line of work. Phoenix is basically the closest you can get to the rebellion without becoming an illegal. Needless to say, there’s no love lost for Captain Curufinwë Finwion of the Special Forces, butcher of freedom fighters. Arafinwë’s first reaction is to avoid confrontation. His second is to ask Fëanaro to go back behind a desk, even if it costs them Phoenix.

“I don’t understand you”, Arafinwë says when Fëanaro refuses to quit. “You don’t agree one bit with what is going on here! The strangling of the arts, the nonexistent freedom of the press, the way the system treats people like _us_. Why are you fighting for them?”

“It’s too late for me, Ari,” his father replies, with a stare coming right out of his past life. “But it’s not too late for _you_. A soul like mine –drenched in sorrow, blood and disappointment, it will never bring light back. I am nothing compared to the wonders you will imagine in the years, decades, _centuries_ to come.”

He won’t admit there’s more to that. Fëanaro has been taking the blue pills for so long he doesn’t know who he is without them anymore; they are part of him, now. He’s probably afraid of the backlashes against his other children if he deserts. He'd be right to think the rebels wouldn't welcome him anyway.

“At least keep Tyelko out of the army!”

“He can make his own choices.”

“Choices? Have you ever seen him kill, father? I have! I _remember_ your son, my brother, killing people! I remember the look on his face!”

“Tell me, then. Was Tyelko happy without violence?” Arafinwë can’t deny it. Fëanaro presses him on. “If I refuse him, he will do it anyway. He is fascinated by the arts of killing and tracking. The army knows how to deal with this kind of urges.”

“They do,” Arafinwë retorts. “They turn them against people like _me_.”

 

Arafinwë graduates from Phoenix. He sees his friends disappear one after the other. Some are arrested, others go underground in a self-feeding cycle. At first, he tries to paint what is expected: trees and mountains, generic stuffs from back when Arda was still green, but nothing precise enough to trigger memories. He sketches a lot from the past, though. One day, he will manage to awaken his family. He will manage to awaken everyone.

 

It takes Nolofinwë’s betrayal and Earwen refusing to marry him to push him over the edge, because his brother (king Fingolfin ; his beloved, infallible, noble brother) and his wife (in another life) just murdered Arafinwë’s children (in another life) by not allowing them to exist at all. He can’t stomach to looks Earwen throws him (as if he never loved her and used her, as if trying to connect his past life and his new one is bad in some way).

In his past life, Arafinwë could always find someone to listen to him in his family. Sometimes it was his mother (Indis never died), or his brother, or Findis or Lalwendë or Earwen or Finwë, but in this life it’s like Fëanaro is the only one ever hearing him.

He phones before he shows up. It’s an arrangement he has with Fëanaro: he doesn’t pesters him for sleeping with Morgoth if his father keeps his husband out of the way when they meet.

Arafinwë’s going to say he’s leaving, but his father (his brother) puts a finger on his lips and embraces him.

“Don’t say anything I’d have to report.”

“I love you. I love you and I will _save_ you.”

Fëanaro’s arms close harder around him, but he doesn’t ask him not to leave.

 

The next day, Arafinwë Ingoldo Curufinwion disappears from the MANDOS system altogether.

_Free to remember at least._

 

 


	3. Noldolantë [Maglor]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The truth is that Kano is missing something. He doesn’t know what. He feels hollow when he’s with his family, with friends and strangers. He feels lonely whether he’s alone or with his brothers or singing in front of ten thousands of people. He feels incomplete when he writes and sings with his heart, as if his soul is missing a unique quality that would turn his shoddy work into art."
> 
> In the new Arda, Canafinwë Macalaurë, a successful popstar rediscovers the Noldolantë, his former's life Chef d'Oeuvre, and decides to become, once again, a leading character of History.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arafinwë: Finarfin  
> Fëanaro : Fëanor  
> Macalaurë/Kano : Maglor

Kanafinwë Macalaurë Curufinwë falls in love with music when Melkor gifts him his first electric guitar, under Fëanaro’s much disapproving glare (“We do have neighbors, you know?”). The instrument is too big for him but it’s decorated with bright, red flames, and is far too expensive for a kid, but Kano is too entranced to suspect his father’s husband is trying to buy him.

Melkor isn’t a great musician, but he teaches him the basics and a few rock’n’roll songs. He’s a very good singer, though, and keeps tutoring his step-son in singing even after Fëanaro manages to squeeze out the funds to hire a proper teacher for the guitar.

 

Kano is already a star under the name Macalaurë when he joins the prestigious School of Nessa: he’s got enough followers on Vairë’s Net to pay for everything he needs, including the school. By the time he graduates, he earns more by himself than Fëanaro and Melkor together.

He moves from rock’n’roll to pop and starts to earn millions. He’s on TV, on the Net, on every radio waves. He has hundreds of thousands of fans. Kano doesn’t deny the accusation when Melkor tells him his music sounds empty nowadays, _commercial_ ; he agrees, but music is his job and celebrity is addictive. He writes songs like one may do science, not to give them a soul but to touch as many ears as possible.

 

When he goes to family reunions after Arafinwë’s disappearance, Kano is greeted with variable approbation. Nolofinwë clearly thinks he’s shallow. Lalwendë is enamored with the lights, but worries that he’s doing drugs (even if he’s in control, he doesn’t need them, it’s just expected of a pop star to inject some weird things). Tyelkormo says pop is stupid but asks if Kano can buy him a motorcycle (“absolutely not”, Fëanaro’s words). Melkor is disappointed he’s not carrying the flame of alternative music to the masses but doesn’t hold it against him. Fëanaro is ecstatic that he looks so happy (is he? His father’s not always the most perceptive around the table).

The truth is that Kano is missing something. He doesn’t know what. He feels hollow when he’s with his family, with friends and strangers. He feels lonely whether he’s alone or with his brothers or singing in front of ten thousands of people. He feels incomplete when he writes and sings with his heart, as if his soul is missing a unique quality that would turn his shoddy work into _art_.

 

He’s high with two girls in his bed when he gets a call from Arafinwë. He recognizes the voice but not the number. Kano _should_ refuse to see him since meeting an illegal can put him into much troubles, and Arafinwë was always weird to begin with, but he’s trashed so he says _why not_.

They meet in a park on a cold winter day. Arafinwë looks ridiculous in an old jacket of non-describable color, his golden hair dyed a dull chestnut, the blue of his eyes turned brown by lenses. He covers half his face with a thick scarf.

“You look like a hobo,” Kano starts.

Arafinwë doesn’t answer, but his eyes roam over his brother. He doesn’t look impressed by the expensive clothes, elaborate hair and shiny jewelry.

“You’ve been making music.”

“Yes. I’m very successful.”

“Why? Because you’re earning money? Because thousands of sheep click on your videos?”

“That’s how we measure “successful” today.”

“Your music is awful. You used to have so much _talent_ , you are wasting your time.”

Kano shrugs. He shouldn’t have come. It’s not like he should have expected his brother to make sense, or even to appreciate all he’s built.

“If you’ve come to insult me…”

“No. I came to give you _this_ ,” Arafinwë says as he shoves a disc between his hands. “It’s a fragment of something you created back when you were one of the best artists in our world. The voice’s mine and the music is artificial, so it’s not as good, but it’s a start.”

“A start to what? Do you really think I’m going to sing outdated tunes?”

“A start to making you deserve your name, Macalaurë.” _He Who Forges Gold_. “It’s called the Noldolantë. I’m giving you a phone number, one use only.”

 

Kano isn’t going to listen, but he can’t bring himself to throw the disk away. The device stays on his desk. It nags him, even buried under piles of rough drafts. He’s never been interested in the Arda that was; some days, he even doubted it existed at all. He feels like he’s standing on a cliff, above a stormy sea, and listening to the song would be like taking a step forward.

 

He should put the disk in the trash bin. Then empty the trash bin. What if someone finds he was in contact with an illegal? What if whatever is on the disk makes him catch Arafinwë’s madness?

 

The disk sits there.

Until Kano can’t bear it and decides to bring an end to this. He’ll just have to listen once to make sure it’s outdated garbage. He’ll be able to move on with his life. Things will be as they were before.

But it’s not. It’s not outdated garbage. Arafinwë’s voice isn’t actually bad, but it’s off, and Macalaurë hears instantly that despite his brother’s efforts, there’s still something missing. The instrumental is mostly horrible.

He tries singing it. He knows he does so perfectly even before the last note rings out.

He spends the next days rewriting the song. Arafinwë’s rendition looks like he was remembering the song rather than creating it; he must have forgotten some part, or misremembered them, but Macalaurë can fill the gaps as if… as if he knows the song by heart. He doesn’t understand the events he’s singing but his voice does, and with his voice his whole soul. The Noldolantë seems to tune him to himself again, sweeping the distractions away; the fans, the luxuries, the “magic formula” behind his bestselling hits. Music becomes his focus, his mean to ascend, more than a mere _job_.

 

He calls Arafinwë. They meet again in a hotel room. This time, Macalaurë asks questions after questions. What is Alqualondë? Who were the princes of the Noldor? Who was he, the Macalaurë of the past, the man who wrote and sang this tale?

“You lived in times of darkness and blood. You committed great crimes and fought great evils. The war, the grief, the madness and bravery, they all made you the greatest singer our people ever had. A life fully lived, not the empty ways you tread on now.”

Macalaurë gets it. He understands so well now, the emptiness, the shallowness of his life! How could he expect greatness when he was but a child, untested, with no open wounds to draw art from? His mother and elder brother did die, but he was far too young to remember, and he has let Melkor fill the gap where his mother was supposed to be.

Arafinwë’s expression turns worried when Macalaurë asks him more about his past life. He wants to know more about Alqualondë (a town he doesn’t know, full of people he doesn’t know), about how it looked, about Losgar, about the War of Wrath. He wants to know more about his family’s suffering. He asks of the kinslayings, of his father’s and his own madness, of Maedhros (that brother who died too soon, that part of Kano that is missing?) He wants to know more about Fëanaro, the one from the past, the anti-hero of a tragedy. He wants more and more and more of this story, this story where’s he’s one of the leading characters. He understands Arafinwë was right: in this new life, he is nothing. There’s no story unfolding around him, no epic tale he’s writing with his decisions and actions.

 

Because Arafinwë is so hard to reach, Macalaurë decides to turn to the only other person he knows who lived in Arda Marred: Melkor.

He doesn’t have to use codes or whatever, or to hide like he does when he meets his rebellious brother. Kano comes home for a week of holidays and waits for Fëanaro to be detained at work.

“So, I heard you’ve lived quite an interesting life in Arda, Morgoth.”

His step-father drops the plate he is carrying. It shatters on the floor.

“Don’t call me _that_ ,” Melkor gasps. Macalaurë can’t believe what Arafinwë told him about him. He can’t imagine Melkor moving mountains and creating dragons. He may be strong and so tall even Fëanaro looks small compared to him, he still needed help to move the new fridge in the kitchen. “Who told you?”

“Ari.”

“You’ve seen him?”

“Perhaps.”

“Don’t play games with me, Kano. This isn’t _funny_.”

“Or what? Are you going to hang me on the side of a cliff?”

He feels his heart clenching at the utterly betrayed look on his step-father’s face, but then, Melkor deserves it for the mediocrity of his current life. Of their current life. He, who used to be the greatest, who sang the world into being: how can he be satisfied with living this boring existence? How can he be satisfied by rotting here, in Fëanaro’s arms… Fëanaro, who went from the moving force behind world history to a petty officer, to the greatest artist of all times to this dullard Macalaurë calls “father”?

“I want to know what happened during the First Age. Arafinwë has rather unfortunates “holes” concerning those events.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“Because I need the whole story. I need to know what I suffered in the past, what happened, to _find back the art in me_. I need to understand.”

“Why would _I_ want to tell you? This may be a game to you, Kano, but I lived through this times. They aren’t a fucking story! People lived and suffered and died. People burnt alive and worked to death. You murdered people and saw your family die. _Fëanaro died_. I am not going through this again to amuse you!”

“But…”

“No. No but. I won’t tell you. Now clean up the glass from the floor before your father comes home.”

 

Macalaurë can’t ask Fëanaro about Arda Marred, but he manipulates him into recreating the feelings woven into the Noldolantë. Macalaurë asks about Finwë’s death and tries to read, on his father’s face, the grief of the Fëanaro of old. He feigns interest in his grandfather’s demise when he, in fact, cares only about the King of the Noldor (he hardly knew his grandfather anyway). He asks about Fëanaro’s creative drive, but that’s “gone with the pills”.

He asks about killing.

“How did it felt? The first time you killed someone? Was it on purpose? Were you defending yourself?”

Macalaurë tries to recreate his past self’s feelings in Alqualondë, his own emotions that are now gone. He killed. He killed a lot during the First Age. His hands are clean now, untested. Perhaps he should kill someone to know better.

“I’m not comfortable talking about that,” Fëanaro says, a nervous look upon his face. Is he ashamed?

“I know, dad. I’m not judging you.”

“Did something happen, Kano? Did someone threaten you?”

“No, don’t worry, it’s nothing like that. I’m working on a story, I need to make it _real_. I need to feel what the characters are feeling…”

“ _That_ is why you are suddenly interested in my line of work?”

“Yes. It’s a very important story for me. It may be the piece of art of my life!”

“Its… I’ve _killed_ people, Kano.”

“I know. You probably had to. I just want to know how you felt. How you feel.”

Why can’t he understand? He is supposed to be greatest artist of all times! Can’t he see Macalaurë’s needs?

“Dad. I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t for something real. Trust me. It’s worth it.”

Melkor comes in before Macalaurë has the chance to convince his father. Not that he’d help anyway. Fëanaro is too limited for that.

 

Macalaurë understands Arafinwë is trying to use him to further the rebellion’s goals. His adoptive brother thinks the Noldolantë, sung with all the might of Macalaurë’s voice, may start to shake things up. The singer doesn’t really cares about politics. He sees a way to finally be the hero of his own epic story. He’ll be the one who brings the revolution (who cares that he doesn’t give a damn about it?). Perhaps he’ll become a martyr. He’ll be a name in history rather than a nobody, because a nobody (not instrumental in History) is what he _is_ right now.

He is selected to represent Valmapolis in the Ardavision contest. Arafinwë kind of disapprove, because he’s old fashioned and he thinks the Noldolantë is too noble for a rather kitsch singing competition.

“Don’t be daft. Millions of viewers will watch and it’s a real-time diffusion. It will go viral before anyone at MANDOS can stop it. I’ll just modernize the instrumental and create a fake version with the same melody for the rehearsals, and use the real one during the show.”

 

His plan works wonders, and no one sees it coming. His song is a huge success, even if it doesn’t win (someone at MANDOS probably phoned the board people to try to keep the song down). It’s Macalaurë’s best performance ever, and it’s on the Net already when he gets back to his dressing room.

“What have you done?” his father asks him when the meet outside the concert hall. Macalaurë invited Fëanaro and Melkor, with VIP seats and the promise of an awesome diner in a luxury restaurant, officially because he wanted to apologize for his coarse behavior, really because he wanted to say good bye. Also because it wouldn’t be a tragedy if his father wasn’t here to be heart broken.

“The best performance of my life!” Macalaurë exclaims. He smiles widely, as if he could erase the look on Fëanaro’s face.  He’s still acting. He knows the MANDOS people are going to kill him. Fëanaro knows it too. “I’ve forgotten my suit at the hotel. I’ll meet you at the restaurant.”

“You look nice as you are.”

“In shiny sequins? Really, dad, that’s a fancy place, we’d get bad glares. I’ll be there ten minutes after you.”

“Let me drive you.”

“No.” He doesn’t know if they will kill Fëanaro too if he stays with him. Perhaps they will. The murder of a Captain of the Special Forces would probably help them blame the rebellion, and it’s not Macalaurë’s goal.

That and he doesn’t want his father do die.

“Kano is a grown man,” Melkor says. He sneaks behind his husband and circles his arms around his waist. To the world, he looks like he’s merely hugging his husband. To Fëanaro and Macalaurë, he’s keeping the first from running after the second. “He takes his own decisions.”

“I do,” Macalaurë affirms. “See ya.”

 _Thank you_ , he thinks, as hard as he can, because Arafinwë told him elves could mind-speak in Arda Marred.

 _I will never forgive you for this, Maglor_ , Morgoth roars into his head.

 

He goes back to the hotel and starts to change. When he’s done, he calls Fëanaro to tell him he’s going to be late. Macalaurë wonders if death hurts. His father is worried (“are you coming yet? What’s taking you so long?”) and pesters him when the room’s door unlocks. The singer sees the man coming, nondescript, face hidden by one of the infamous Assisted Vision Helmets. How fitting that they sent Special Forces to murder him, he, the son of one of their own!

“I love you, dad,” Kano says to his phone, just as the silenced shot pierces his heart.

He’s dead before he touches the ground, long before his assassin steps on the phone, silencing his father’s pleas: _why aren’t you answering?_

_What’s wrong?_

_Kano?_

 


End file.
